I Wasn't Late This Time
by wickedfrominnocence
Summary: A quick drabble I wrote for a friend on tumblr who asked for a story about Steve living through the crash and making it to the Stork Club.


He needed to hear her voice— needed to hear her speaking as if everything would turn out okay in the end even if he could hear how her voice wavered as she choked back tears. It was a normal conversation about a normal date the two would have in just over a week's time. Away from the fighting and barracks and commands. Just the two of them; Steve managing to trip over both her feet and his own and Peggy laughing at him for it. He can imagine it already; can imagine just how that laugh sounds when she's utterly carefree.

'Just be there.'

Those three words ring out in his head for a few moments as he sees his imminent fate nearing. Three words which, though more than eight letters combined, hold great weight to them.

He's in the middle of reminding her how he would step on her feet— or, rather, how he would hate to do so— when metal meets ice, shorting out all systems on the plane. Not that he's in it for long. No, he's thrown from it thanks to the impact. Thrown through what remains of the glass and leaving behind gashes along his cheeks and hands; anywhere his uniform isn't covering, though he's not worried about those. They'll heal. What he's worried about now is how to get back into communication with someone… anyone.

It takes days of wandering before he has any such luck, but he manages to locate a crew who is doing one experiment or another— who isn't nowadays, it seems— and seeks shelter with them. It's by the skin of his teeth that he makes it back to New York by the following Saturday and stumbles into the small apartment he and Bucky had once shared (he can't even bring himself to think about how that will never be again. Now it will just be him). His old army uniform is what he chooses to don for the night and he does his best to hide what's left of one of the gashes along his hairline with his cap, though he's sure Peggy will spot it. She notices everything.

He's grateful it doesn't take long to wave down a taxi and instruct the driver to head directly to The Stork Club. He has a date to catch and he won't dare be late for it.

Steve steps into the club directly at eight o'clock Saturday night and instantly glances around the darkened room, thankful for the music he hears instead of whistling wind which bites at his skin. It only takes a few moments for him to spot her. Her back is toward him, but he would recognize her anywhere.

Soft, brunette curls rest against her shoulders and there's a slit on the side of her skirt which shows a bit more leg than she usually allows. Steve has to swallow down the lump in his throat at the mere sight of her because he knows how close he came to never getting this moment. It's with that in mind that he strides over to her and captures her wrist, grinning as he uses it as leverage to spin her around and tug her straight into a kiss.

It doesn't last long, though, not when her hands are suddenly against his chest and shoving and he allows it to happen; allows himself to be pushed away. She's easy to read. Shock. She'd been expecting a stranger to have been the one to have pulled her in; had shoved him away because she had thought it was some man being crude. It's as her eyes well up with tears that her fingers fist into his jacket and he feels her press right up against him, her face momentarily buried against his chest as she fights to choke back tears.

One hand rises up so he can catch her chin with his fingertips and guide it up to get a proper look at her.

"I wasn't late this time," he states with a grin as his hand moves from beneath her chin to her cheek so he can brush fallen tears away. He's gifted with a smack from her then and what he's sure is suppose to be a stern look, though it fails miserably with the way the tears keep falling.

"Steven Grant Rogers, you come back from the dead and all you can do is quip about this." He hears how her voice wavers, though this time he's glad for it. Unlike when he heard that same wavering voice through the radio, this time he can be there for her. He can reach for her waist and give it a gentle squeeze before looping his arms around her to hold her even closer; proving to her that he was real.

The two stay like that for a minute; Steve allowing Peggy to shed happy tears, wetting his jacket, and her allowing him to pull her in as close as physically possible. Perhaps they're making a bit of a scene (and they both know that his face has been splashed across newspapers throughout the states and even beyond that, so he's easily recognizable), but neither care. All they care about at the moment is that they've somehow managed to keep this date after all they'd been through.

Finally, Peggy pulls back with a faint sniffle and brushes aside a stray tear as she looks up at Steve once more.

"I believe I need to show you how to dance, Captain." Her voice is more sure of itself now, though her eyes are clearly still glassy with unshed tears.

"Steve," he corrects because there's no need for formalities between them. They both know how they feel and it's not like anyone is around who cares if they use formalities or not at the moment.

"Steve," she correct in turn as he takes her hand and happily leads her to the center of the dance floor.

People are staring, he's aware of that, but he doesn't care. All he cares about right now is wrapping his right arm around her upper back, his hand splaying out between her shoulder blades as his left hand takes hers and extends their arms out.

"I'm afraid you'll have to lead," he comments as the band switches from an upbeat swing song to something a bit slower for those couples who enjoyed the gentle rise and fall of a waltz instead of the kicks and turns and flips that came with the swing. He's grateful for that change, but he's even more grateful for the way Peggy gently begins guiding him, her body gently pushing forward against his when he needed to step back and hand gently pulling when he needed to step forward. The way she quietly counts off the music to him is both helpful and endearing.

They spend many quiet moments just like that; her whispering the one, two, three rhythm to him as he tried to commit the footwork to memory. Partway through the song, he stops needing her to lead so much and does his best at taking over that role. Every now and then he fumbles over a step, though he does manage to miss stepping on her feet which was better than he had expected.

It's at the end of the song that he lets his hand fall away from her back and guides her into a gentle spin before pulling her toward him once more, this time simply holding her in that embrace rather than attempting to dance at all. This was real— after all this time, he had finally gotten to share a dance with her. It was a simple gesture, yes, but he knew what it meant to them both. In a way, it spoke more than words truly could in that moment.

"Peg," the shortened version of her name slips easily from his lips and it causes her to tilt her head back just enough that she can glance up at him through dark lashes, "I'll always be here for my best girl." It's not quite the words he feels he could say to her, but they easily stand in for those three words for now.

She rises up onto her toes then and lets her eyes fall closed as she takes the lead on their second kiss of the night; a kiss he all too happily returns even though the song has once again shifted and they should take their display off the dance floor. But moving is not in the question right now, so he stays there with his arms wrapped tightly around her and lips pressed to hers and simply breathes in the fact that he gets this moment with her at all.


End file.
